


mountains that are stacked with fear

by glorious_spoon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Curses, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rescue, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 22:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16355579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: The curse was meant for Derek.





	mountains that are stacked with fear

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Lee, who asked for some h/c with Stiles getting hurt protecting Derek. I meant for this to be a drabble, but it got just a little out of hand, so I'm posting it separately.

“What were you thinking?” Derek hissed, adjusting his grip as a flailing limb smacked him in the hip. He wanted to believe that it had been intentional, but Stiles’s eyes were rolled back so that only white showed through his slitted lids, his body jerking like it was hooked to an electric current, and it was pretty fucking clear that there was nobody home right now. His arms felt impossibly fragile under Derek’s palms, like they might crumble to dust in his grip. A low, keening noise escaped his lips. The curse had been meant for something much stronger than one lanky human teenager, and whatever it was doing to him sounded like he was being ripped apart from the inside.

For Derek. The curse had been meant for Derek, but that plan had been derailed when Stiles had slammed out of the darkness and tackled the witch, putting his own body between the crackling energy in her hands and Derek.

His claws unsheathed, scoring faint red lines in Stiles’s skin before he managed to get himself under control and glanced up at Deaton. The druid was crouched over the dead witch, rummaging through her pockets with an air of serene calm that made Derek want to rip his impassive face to shreds. “What’s happening to him?”

“It’s hard to say,” Deaton said without looking up. “There are too many variables. If Stiles was a werewolf—”

“He’d be fine, but he’s human, and an _idiot_ , and—”

“If Stiles was a werewolf,” Deaton interrupted gently, “he’d be dead right now. If she’d managed to hit you, _you’d_ be dead right now. I can’t say I approve of his tactics, but he knew what he was doing.”

“Idiot,” Derek said again, but he couldn’t put much heat in it. He chafed Stiles’s pale, bruised arms slightly, trying to rub some warmth back into him. Humans always ran cooler than wolves, but the chill that clung to Stiles seemed inhuman, deathlike. “What were you thinking? Stiles, you never fucking _think—_ ”

“D— d’rek.” He almost didn’t realize that it was meant to be a word. Then one icy hand smacked at his arm, fingers digging in, blunt nails marking deep crescents in his skin. “ _Derek._ ”

“Yeah,” he said. There was something wrong with his voice. His fingers were pressing hard into Stiles’s skin, and he made himself relax before he left bruises. Too late, probably. Humans were fragile. _Stiles_ was fragile, in ways that his brash reckless courage made it too easy to forget sometimes. “Yeah. I’m here.”

Stiles’s eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and dazed. He didn’t really look like he was tracking much of anything, gaze flickering from Derek’s face to the dark trees above them to the crumpled smoking lump that was all that was left of the witch. His hand twitched on Derek’s arm, then dropped.

“Okay,” he mumbled, and then his eyes slid shut, his whole body going suddenly limp.

“Stiles,” Derek said, a sharp bolt of fear stabbing through him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Deaton’s head jerk up, but nothing could have mattered less just then. His hands skittered up Stiles’s bare arms, over the scorched cloth of his t-shirt; his own breath and heartbeat sounded too loud in his ears and he couldn’t hear Stiles at all, he couldn’t tell if Stiles was—

Alive. He was alive. A pulse still fluttered under the cool skin of his throat, and as the tide of panic receded slightly, Derek could hear it too, a familiar thrum.

“You idiot,” he murmured, thumb brushing over the underside of Stiles’s jaw. There was something thick and strange twisting in the back of his throat, like that wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all even though he’d never meant anything more in his life. “You’re such an idiot, Stiles. Scott is going to kill you, if I don’t do it first.”

Footsteps on the dead leaves, and Deaton crouched down beside them. Derek couldn’t bring himself to look at him, even when he rested a hand briefly on his shoulder, the scent of ash and lightning filling his nose. Deaton’s magic didn’t quite smell like witch magic, but right now it was a little too uncomfortably close. Enough that he couldn’t stop the subsonic growl building in his chest, but Deaton didn’t even flinch.

“We should get out of here,” he said quietly. “Can you carry him?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Deaton said, and the pressure of his hand left as he stood, moving away. “We need to move. The rest of the coven is still unaccounted for.”

Derek pressed the pads of his fingers to Stiles’s throat for another moment, feeling the reassuring thrum of his pulse, then gathered him into his arms and stood. Stiles was heavier than he looked, deceptively strong under all the layers of baggy clothes and brittle sarcasm, but Derek could have carried twice his weight easily. There was no reason for him to feel so unsteady when one of Stiles’s hands slipped to hang loosely at his side, when his head settled into the crook of Derek’s shoulder, close enough for him to smell the bitter remnants of deadly magic overlaying the warm familiar scent of Stiles himself. His skin still seemed icy, but his breath was warm against Derek’s collarbone.

He took a slow breath and lifted his head to see Deaton watching him with a thoughtful expression. Felt himself bristle, defensive for no reason he could explain. “What?”

Deaton opened his mouth, then shook his head and lifted his hands slightly, as if in surrender. “Nothing. Do you know where Stiles parked the Jeep?”

Derek lifted his head, sniffing the night air. He didn’t know, but he didn’t really need to. The trail of chemosignals Stiles had left in his wake as he scrambled up the hill was as clear as if he’d been laying out a trail of breadcrumbs. Even over the fading stink of fire and magic, he could smell it. Fury and determination, all shot through with the shaky adrenaline scent of fear.

 _He knew what he was doing_ , Deaton had said, and that was something that Derek couldn’t allow himself to consider. Not here, not now. He jerked his chin in the direction of the trail. “That way. There’s a road at the bottom of the hill.”

Deaton nodded and started down, human-cautious on the uneven terrain even with the moonlight filtering in through the trees. Derek shifted his grip on Stiles, settling the boneless weight of him in his arms, and followed, leaving the clearing and the dead witch behind.


End file.
